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At 1:20 am on June 28, 1969, New York City police raided the Stonewall Inn, a popular Greenwich Village gay bar. The approximately 200 patrons fought back, sparking six days of protests and inspiring generations of 2 Spirit, Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transgender, Queer and additional sexual orientations and gender identities (2SLGBTQ+)¹ activists.

In honour of the 55th anniversary of the Stonewall Riots, we interviewed seven 2SLGBTQ+ alumni to learn about their experiences and to see how the �ʹ�����’s community has evolved over the years.

The 1960s

The �ʹ�����’s University campus is 615 kilometres from Greenwich Village, but in 1969 it may as well have been at the other end of the world. In an age when same-sex activity was a criminal offense that carried a prison term, 2SLGBTQ+ people knew that living openly could lead to being denied service at a restaurant, being denied housing, ostracism from classmates and professors, and, often, beatings. As a result, they tended to keep their sexual identities to themselves. “No one was gay in those days,” says Gregg Blachford, Artsci’71.  

Blachford, who was not out at the time, remembers his �ʹ�����’s experience as happy, albeit steeped in denial.  “I dated women and they thought of me as the perfect gentleman because I never put my hands on them,” he says. “The problem was I didn’t have gay friends. Having people you can identify with is really what opens things up and makes you feel better about yourself.”

Blachford would later learn that there were other gay students at �ʹ�����’s at the time – including one of his roommates. Unfortunately, homophobia was so entrenched on campus that they couldn’t come out to each other. “We were so isolated that we were never able to bond,” he says. “We each lived in our own little hidden world.”

As he grew to accept his sexuality, Blachford slowly began looking to broaden his world. “Somehow I picked up that City Park, near the campus, was where gays cruised,” he says. “I remember going there in my third year. There was a man who followed me. I think he might have said hello, but I just scampered. I was too scared to stay.”

Not long afterward, he worked up the courage to enter The Cat’s Meow, a downtown Kingston bar that was popular among gay men. “I walked in, got terrified, and walked right out the door,” he says. “So, on those two occasions I dipped my toe in, but I couldn’t seem to follow through.” He was finally able to come out after graduation, once he had returned home to Toronto.

The 1970s

In the early 1970s, Toronto had taken its first steps toward a more inclusive future for the 2SLGBTQ+ community. By 1973, the city had its own gay magazine, had aired Canada’s first queer television series, and had taken part in the country’s inaugural Pride Week celebrations. And in October, Toronto City Council made history, becoming the first Canadian municipality to ban discrimination based on sexual orientation.

In the fall of 1973, after a popular student newspaper published a column rife with homophobic slurs, a letter of protest appeared in the �ʹ�����’s Journal. Signed by “Three Campus Homophiles,” it spoke out, not only against the column, but also against a campus culture that turned an intentional blind eye to violence, intimidation, and ingrained homophobia. It added that “�ʹ�����’s is one of the few universities left in North America which still does not have its own homophile association.”  

The letter sparked weeks of debate on the Journal’s letters to the editor page, including several letters defending the offending columnist and attacking the original letter writers. Still, it created enough momentum that, by the end of October, the , the university’s first resource for 2SLGBTQ+ students, was born. In 1974, it became an officially sanctioned organization. “They ran a phone line,” says Dr. Nancy Tatham, Artsci’86, Artsci’00. “There were a lot of callers who were alone and isolated. Or maybe they were kicked out of their houses when their roommates found out. It was a desperately needed service.”  

By 1975, the QHA had established a small resource library, and, a year later, they published their first newsletter. By 1977, they were holding dances every few months in the basement of the law school building, often attracting as many as 150 people.

The 1980s

Toronto experienced its own Stonewall moment in February of 1981, as more than 3,000 protesters took to the streets after city police arrested 286 people in a series of bathhouse raids.

Tatham arrived on campus in the fall of 1981 and came out the following year. “From my experience, there was nothing on campus, so it was very haphazard trying to find community,” she says. Her initiation into the community began with a chance encounter at the �ʹ�����’s Choral Society. “We had a break in rehearsal, and one of the other women went outside with me,” she recalls. “She said, ‘you’re one too, aren’t you?’”

Another chance encounter, arranged through a friend in a chemistry lab, led her to the QHA headquarters in the Grey House on what is now Bader Lane. “I lived in Vic Hall, right beside the Grey House,” Tatham says. “I remember being casually warned off. ‘Don’t go near the Grey House. That’s where…’  I don’t remember the exact terminology, but it wasn’t flattering. It was enough to scare me away, but I managed to get up the nerve and I went to a meeting there. That’s how it started for me.”

The mid-1980s was a hard time for 2SLGBTQ+ people around the world. “Rock Hudson had just died,” Tatham says. “AIDS awareness was bubbling up in the public consciousness, and a torrent of homophobia came up with it. We were being hunted down and beaten up.” That made it difficult for �ʹ�����’s students who were struggling to find community. “We put together a flying squad,” Tatham says, “because there were people who were too afraid to go to the Grey House. We would get letters that said, ‘Meet me at Place X and Time X. I will be wearing such and such. I just want to talk to someone.’”  

Tatham recalls the experience of a friend: “He was studying in Mac Corry in the middle of the day. A guy was staring him down very menacingly, so he gathered up his books and went down University Avenue. The guy caught up with him in front of Dunning Hall, grabbed him, pummeled him, and hurled his books onto the street. My friend watched as a bus drove over his books. He managed to run away, bleeding, but he told me it wasn’t the beating that hurt the most. It was that none of his fellow students intervened.”  

This was the environment that awaited Chris Veldhoven, Artsci’94, when he arrived on campus in the mid-1980s. Raised in part by a gay father, Veldhoven was more comfortable with his sexuality than many of his peers. “I was already out to my best friend when I got here,” he says. “And I started coming out publicly as I sensed a few other queer folk on campus. It was probably a little easier for me, but even I wasn’t out to everyone in my first year because of everything that was happening.”

Veldhoven and Tatham were part of a diverse and dedicated group of activists who worked tirelessly to change the prevailing attitudes. Veldhoven hosted After Stonewall, CFRC’s first queer radio show. “And because I was exploring studying theatre and theatre history, I met people and pulled together production teams for our first Pride theatre pieces,” he says. “We called ourselves Rebels With ‘Out’ Cause.”  

Tatham graduated in 1986 but remained on campus as a volunteer activist. "In a way, I was fortunate,” she says. “Looking back, I would say that my ability to focus on queer issues was in part because I had multiple privileges as a middle-class, WASP, able-bodied, neurotypical kid from semi-urban Southwestern Ontario with an intact, supportive family where I was the third generation to attend university. I didn’t have to deal with other issues because, my lesbianism aside, I had an easy ride. For those who were not of the mainstream, it was harder to come out, harder to find a place within the queer community, and harder to find a voice on a very white, very straight campus.”

Tatham and her fellow activists had a lot of work ahead of them. In 1987, she met a male student at a dance. A few days later, she bumped into him on the street. “I greeted him by name, and he just froze,” she says. “He was terrified. I saw him again later, and he said that he was with people who didn’t know, and he was afraid I was going to out him. I remember thinking that we should be able to walk down the street and not live in fear.”

That realization led Tatham to more activism. She teamed up with Francois Lachance, Artsci’82, “�ʹ�����’s first prominent gay and lesbian activist,” to stage an annual Lesbian and Gay Awareness Week, which culminated in 1989 in Kingston’s first Pride March. “We called it a Pride Stroll,” she says. “I remember gathering on somebody’s back deck. We made a banner, and we went to Market Square at high noon on a Saturday and we marched up Princess to Montreal Street, and then we turned around and marched back. There were no catcalls, nothing. But every shop door opened, and people were just standing there, agog. I think they were shocked.”

Another turning point came when Tatham and others met with the head of Student Counselling. “We told them they needed to offer services for lesbian and gay students,” she says. “And it became clear that they didn’t understand what the issues were.”  

Later that year, Tatham was invited to speak in one of the residences. “One person showed up,” she says. “But we quickly realized that there were all these people clustered at the door, so we invited them in, and it turned into a great meeting.” Dr. Elspeth Baugh, the Dean of Women, read a report about the meeting and voiced her approval. That vote of confidence inspired the group to hold more informal training sessions with residence dons and floor seniors.  

Lorne Gretsinger, ConEd’92, was one of those dons. He says he appreciated the training, but he wasn’t quite ready to come out himself. “I couldn’t come out at the time because it wasn’t a friendly environment,” he says. Despite the efforts of Tatham, Veldhoven, and others, the homophobic roots still ran deep on campus. “There would be posters that said, on a certain day, and no one would wear jeans that day.”

In addition to working as a don, Gretsinger was active in student government. “I frame it that I delayed coming out by keeping myself busy,” he says. “I was with this great group of volunteers and student politicians who wanted to make things better, but I also knew there was a target on those who spoke out. Everyone knew Chris was gay. Everyone knew Nancy was a lesbian. There were insults and slurs behind their backs. I was not authentic to myself, but they were, and I was so impressed with how they were living and the leadership they showed. And I knew I was going to get there eventually.”

The 1990s

In the early 1990s, the Yukon became Canada’s first province or territory to grant spousal benefits to same-sex partners. And soon-to-be Prime Minister Kim Campbell lifted the ban on gays and lesbians in the Canadian Forces.

At �ʹ�����’s, the QHA had adopted a more modern, inclusive name, the Lesbian, Gay, and Bisexual Association (LGBA). Still, the old attitudes prevailed – and not just on campus. Veldhoven, who by then was working in the Career Planning and Placement office, remembers a student who came to him for help. “It was during the break and they and their partner lived in separate cities,” he says. “They had a romantic conversation over the phone which they thought was private, but there were two phones in the household and one of their parents picked up the extension and overheard the conversation. The parent cut the student off financially, and the student asked me if I could write a letter of support to OSAP so they could survive and finish the year.”  

Stacy Kelly, Artsci’93, was also struggling to find acceptance when he arrived at �ʹ�����’s in the early 1990s. “I wasn’t really out, not even to myself,” he says. “Third year was especially difficult emotionally and, not surprisingly, academically.” While homophobia still existed on campus, Kelly experienced a different side of the �ʹ�����’s community. “The kindness of faculty and staff is what I will always remember,” he says.